Tin Soldiers
by Surgical
Summary: Upon their deaths he was sent to an orphanage - but he did not stay there. For years they looked for him, endless searches that led nowhere. Until he returned on his own. Yet, he is not the same. Something disquieting shadows the boy, now man, who was once Harry Potter. Rated M. HP/LV slash, HP/DM. Violence, gore.


**Disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter. This still applies to my later chapters, though I will not reiterate. Furthermore, this story itself was inspired by a few favorite stories of mines – which you will find on my profile, and I recommend reading – and might contain some similarities but it is not my intention to plagiarize from them.

**Author's Note**: This is a Work In Progress and will remain to be so. As of now I am estimating the overall weight of this story to roughly reach 200,000 words – though that itself will depend greatly on my chapters. As in all, I will try to post every Monday – if not that then by the weekend at best. Patience with me is asked for as this will be a very slow process which will length greatly by the lack of a Beta, and as such I apologize now for any grammatical errors, spelling, punctuations, etc.

**Warning**: Slash (though nothing to horribly graphic) major character deaths, attempted rape, mentions of child abuse, violence, and such ghastly things I'm sure you'll find cringe worthy if not your cup of tea. As is, if you were expecting, or looking forward to, a fluffy tale full of cuddling and silliness I highly recommend you not read this story. There is major angst. And more angst. And even more angst. Even the ending might not be so happy – anyhow, please remember to Review.

* * *

**Part I **

**. **

**. **

"_To be, or not to be: that is the question:_

_Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer_

_The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,_

_Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,_

_And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;_

_No more; and by a sleep to say we end_

_The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks_

_That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation_

_Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;_

_To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;_

_For in that sleep of death what dreams may come_

_When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,_

_Must give us pause: there's the respect_

_That makes calamity of so long life;_

_For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,_

_The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,_

_The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,_

_The insolence of office and the spurns_

_That patient merit of the unworthy takes,_

_When he himself might his quietus make_

― William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

**. **

**. **

_Prelude _

The night was disquieting as the town of Little Whinging slept, oblivious. Overhead, churning grey clouds obscured stars that would otherwise illuminate the darkness, and the darkness was indeed so profound that not much was distinguishable. The few trees aligning sidewalks groaned as harsh winds tore at their branches and rustled their leaves, their inky silhouettes swaying where they stood in dance to the sinister tune constituted by the impending storm. The creaking of buildings were lost amidst the din of the approaching storm, the air electrifying and expelling the discomforting scent of ozone.

Such was the nature of the night when the man materialized within the shadow of an especially large maple tree. He stood where he appeared for a mere second before breaking into stride, crossing the street and heading north. The homes he passed seemed to hold their breaths, daring not to utter an indication that life resided behind their blackened windows. Though this he chose to ignore as he turned a corner, entering into the street of an immaculately kept community. Identical homes resided on either side, curtains drawn over black windows, and vehicles resting in their drives. Not a thing seemed out of place in Privet Drive, though this description of serene perfection and normality did not apply to this bizarre man who strode up the street.

Nothing like this man had ever been spotted in Privet Drive, and so it was a fair amount of luck that none of the residence were awake to see him. Dressed in a long robe and purple traveling cloak that swept the ground, his buckled heeled-boots clicked noisily against the gravel road. Tall and thin, his senescence was evident by the silver of his hair and beard, though the brightness of his blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles bespoke of power his frail body seemed not to hold. In all, the appearance of Albus Dumbledore in the little community was as suspicious as it was surprising.

The aged man slowed his lengthy strides into a leisure pace, bright eyes sweeping from one sleeping home to the next, only for a second, before locking on a particular home. Of all the houses of Privet Drive who's lights had long since been cut off and family put to rest, the sole light in the living area of number four would come as an annoyance, and surprise, of those who had been awake to see it. Albus made his way toward the lit house, nearing the small picket fence gate when he paused to look at a peculiar tabby cat sitting stiffly beside the entrance. The man gave a low chuckle, eyeing the feline with amusement as he said, "Good evening, Professor McGonagall."

The tabby gave him a severe look, strange in its own for any creature to maintain such a human-like expression. Yet the strange behavior of the stiff feline compared not to the sudden shift in its form. As the man watched, the tabby grew in size and shape, morphing into a thin, stern-faced woman with rectangular spectacles and black hair kept into a tight bun on her head. This woman, still staring at the old man with a ruffled expression, sniffed as she spoke, "Good evening, Albus." Her voice was clipped, sharpened with a note of unease.

"I did not expect to see you here," said Dumbledore with a smile of fondness to the woman before him. "Though I should have known you would not be able to stay put." He gave another chuckle, pushing open the fence gate of number four and holding it open for her as she stepped through before following after her, the small door clicking shut.

"The Ministry is already present," McGonagall informed as they approached the front door, lips pursued tightly. "The Auror's are inside as we speak, along with Kingsley."

"And the boy? What of him?" asked Dumbledore, pausing outside the door to eye his companion with a grave expression.

"He hasn't said a word since they'd arrived," supplied McGonagall. "Or from what I've witnessed since my coming here."

Dumbledore, if he had more to say on it was not given the chance as the front door was opened. A tall man of lithe built with dark skin and clever eyes was who greeted them, and as he stared at the faces of Dumbledore and McGonagall, surprise was not evident on his face as though he had expected their sudden appearance all along. Dumbledore, face still a mask of grievance, offered the man a smile. "Kingsley, it has been some time, my friend," he said.

"Albus," the man, Kingsley, said with a sharp nod of the head and stepped to the side to allow the two newcomers entrance into the home.

Dumbledore, having been inside the residence of number four once before (though it had been some years) could not conceal his horror at the sight that greeted him. Gone were the white walls that now were leaked red, the liquid coalescing into a shallow downward stream that was consumed by the carpet. Glass shards from shattered frames left a trail from the top of the staircase, slithering into the kitchen. An umbrella stand laid on its side, crackling crawling up the side. The air was suffocating with its scent, of copper and death, of pain and fear. Dumbledore shared a long glance with McGonagall, the woman's usually composed face drained of blood and marred with shock at the display.

"It becomes much worse than this," said Kingsley with a grunt, eyes hard. He cast them a blank look, nodding his head toward the kitchen. "The Muggle man is in there – the mother and son in the living area."

"And all of them are – are dead," breathed McGonagall in a small voice. "How could this – how can this happen?" Her eyes looked over to the stain of blood on the wall, and shuddered. "I thought the wards in this house were put in place to protect the family – how could –"

Kingsley gave her a deadpan look, a sigh leaving him. "It was the wards that alerted us of the breach in the homes security, however we have yet to find traces of magical signature that pinpoints the culprit," he explained slowly, lips curling. "As of now, we're started an investigation on any possible leads, but there is little to work with."

"What of the boy?" Dumbledore piped up, drawing the eyes of the two back onto him. "Is he unharmed?"

"Virtually untouched. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises on him – none by magic – he's fine," sniffed Kingsley. "Though he won't speak to any of us."

"I see. Might I have a word with him?"

Kingsley opened his mouth only to close it, staring at Dumbledore with a strange glint in his eyes before he gave a short, jerky nod of the head and led the way. Inside the kitchen the scene of carnage was indeed much worse. The Muggle man, whom Dumbledore knew to be Vernon Dursley, laid on his back, eyes wide and face twisted into a silent cry of pain. Dumbledore averted his eyes quickly when he noticed the large, gaping hole that adorned the man's neck and stomach, nose caving in slightly as they moved past the body a Healer was in the process of examining under the watchful eyes of three other Auror's. Inside the living area, they found the mother and her son interlocked, the frail woman's body attempting to shield her son's. Dumbledore closed his eyes, turning his head away from the mutilated forms of Petunia and Dudley Dursley.

"There he is," grunted Kingsley, coming to a halt.

Dumbledore and McGonagall flanked either side of him, the three creating a barrier – a blockage – around the small child who sat huddled in a corner near the window. Dumbledore glanced over at McGonagall, her face a twist of confusion. He looked back to the child, offering him a gentle smile as he said, "Harry, my how you have grown, my boy."

The boy in question was beautiful, there need not any doubt or question of it. Waves of sable hair hung around a soft and delicately shaped face, overgrown and unkept; just as his hair was pigmented with color so black it seemed blue, his skin was snow white, untouched by the scorch of sunlight. His body was small, in both height and frame, appearing even frailer in the baggy, second hand clothing he wore and that hung from his petite form. Upon further examination, there seemed not a trace of the boy's father in his features, his small nose and lips purely from the mother Dumbledore and McGonagall both remembered so fondly of. Yet, as they continued to stare at this boy, the two begin to feel trickles of unease as he stared back at them.

It was those eyes of his, Dumbledore decided, that put them off. As beautiful as they were, his gaze was too eerie, too focused and knowing for a child his age.

Surrounded by thick, dark lashes, the vibrant green eyes were off-putting. The longer Dumbledore remained under this child's stare, the more his unease grew. McGonagall, who was experiencing the same, felt as though she had been forced beneath an examination table and stripped of skin and bone to be scrutinized at leisure. It was an unsettling sensation.

The boy, Harry, was no more than five but to produce such feelings of wariness within them left Dumbledore with a foreboding consideration on what type of person the boy would grow to become. Nonetheless, he masked his unease with a warmer smile as he approached the child. "How are feeling, Harry?" he asked slowly, cautious of his speech as he gauged the child's reactions.

No reply came.

Dumbledore, not put off by the lack of a response drew out his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, materialized a chair from the kitchen beside him. He sat with a flourish of material, making to slip his wand back into the pocket of his robes when a soft, mellifluous spoke out.

"Do that again," was the request.

Dumbledore inclined his head to the boy, mouth curled into a smile of amusement, though even for him it was half-hearted. Hearing those words, as innocent sounding as they were, were troubling; they sounded far too familiar for his comfort. He held out his wand for the child to examine closer, eyes locked onto the pokered face before him. Green eyes clashed with his own as the boy nodded to his wand. "Aunt Petunia said magic wasn't real – that is was impossible," he said, casting a glance toward the corpse of the person in question. "But I knew it, I _knew_ it was all real."

How troubling to hear a small child to say such a thing, to look at the violated body of his relative without even a flicker of emotion. Dumbledore frowned, putting away his wand and looking over his shoulder to where McGonagall and Kingsley stood; they too seemed to share his sentiments. He cleared his throat. "Harry, if I may ask, what happened to your relatives?"

A thin brow arched, then settled back into place. The boy gave a shrug, gracing the bleeding bodies of his aunt and cousin with a casting off sort of look. "I don't know," he said.

"Oh, you don't know or cannot recall?" asked Dumbledore, frown deepening as he considered the possibility that the child could be lying to him. Though, he also could not exclude the chances that whoever had broken through the wards he himself had set up had also Oblivated the boy's memories, though why he could not begin to guess.

"I said I don't know, isn't that enough?" Annoyance flared in his voice, dissolving the beauty of it as it darkened and turned fridge.

"Yes, I suppose that is enough," murmured Dumbledore. The boy gave a sniff, turning his attention away from them as Dumbledore in returned his eyes to Kingsley and McGonagall. All three looked from one another to the boy who had resumed his blank staring into space. Dumbledore rose to his feet, sparing the silent boy another, long look before beckoning McGonagall and Kingsley to follow after him. Outside the range of hearing, Dumbledore allowed his schooled expression to drop slightly. "He is not what I expected," he stated.

Kingsley snorted. "Biggest understatement of the year," he said with another grunt.

"Dumbledore, the boy – he's rather – he's nothing like his parents," McGonagall strained out. "I've never felt that form of magic – and his eyes—"She trailed off, throat tightening and lips trembling slightly as her face bleached of color.

Dumbledore nodded in understanding. "It is troubling, indeed, to see such behavior from a child," he murmured, "he looked unaffected by the death of his relatives."

"He looked like he _didn't_ care, Albus," said McGonagall with a sharp snap," as if nothing was wrong with the sight of his dead relatives. It's not right, Albus. There is nothing right about a child being emotionless about the death of his family."

"Is it possible that the boy in there is not, in fact, Harry Potter?" Kingsley supplied, warranting a dubious look from McGonagall.

"Not possible, Dumbledore and I were personally present when the boy was handed over to his relatives after the death of his parents," she said, making no room for disputing her fact. "That child – there's just something not right about him, but he _is _Harry Potter."

Kingsley, face puckered, gave a shrug and turned on his heel to return the house. He was still in the midst of an investigation, of course. Left to their own, Dumbledore and McGonagall made their way back to the picket fence gate, both lost in thought as they left the affairs of number four, and Harry Potter behind them. Together they walked back to Little Whinging, neither speaking for the longest of times before McGonagall cleared her throat to ask, "What are we going to do with him now, Albus? He has no more relatives to house him unless – unless you'd rather he be placed with his only closet living relatives on his father's—"

"That won't be necessary," Dumbledore interjected quickly, waving away the notion of placing the boy into the care of the very people they fought to keep him from. "For now it would be in his best interest if he was housed elsewhere."

"Such as?" McGonagall asked, a hint of shrewd suspicion in her voice.

Dumbledore did not offer her an answer, bidding her a simple "Goodnight, Professor McGonagall" before heading on his way. While she remained where she stood, rooted in spot as her mind worked to digest all that had occurred, the storm that had been impending finally broke free. Torrents of cold ran beat down viciously, unrelenting in its nature as it beat a steady tattoo into the roofs of the homes surrounding her. As McGonagall Apparated from the spot with a crack, another shadowed figured appeared outside the gate of number four. The rain seemed not to bother him for he stayed there, concealed and unnoticed for hours, watching the house with a crooked smile that never wavered.

Such a wonderful turn of events this night had been.

**.**

**.**

_Chapter One _

Mrs. Crowder was the sole warden of Crowder's Orphanage in outskirt London. From outside, the building looked to be falling apart. The old establishment was a square and dilapidated building with far too many windows, and never enough blankets. There was little ground to be had save for the small plot of land that housed a rusted swing set out back. Though she worked hard to keep the orphanage in operation, repairing damages she could and ensuring the place did not fall into further despair, with a clutter of children running up and down rickety stairs and crashing into the worn walls, the place was inevitable falling into further rack and ruin.

In her younger years when she and her husband, the late Mr. Crowder and founder, first opened the opened the orphanage doors, Mrs. Crowder had loved children. Unable to bear her own progeny, she dedicated her life to raising the orphans of Crowder's as though they were her own. At that time she had been thirty-six years old, but these days she had come to a bitter realization that raising children was best left to the young and able, especially since the death of her husband. Though she would never voice that out loud, Mrs. Crowder, now in her old age, had grown _tired_. Her joints ached, her vision was slowly fading, and in the winter she was chilled to the bones. But Mrs. Crowder was a determined woman, and with the scant funding the government provided she would raise the children till her last breath.

In spite of her old age, Mrs. Crowder was exceedingly dedicated to caring for her wards. She did not have favorite, treating them all as equals; why even the delinquents were not judged under Mrs. Crowder's roof. And throughout the years Mrs. Crowder saw many interesting children pass through her walls. Some stayed only days, while others were domiciled in the orphanage for a number of years. Such was the case with the boy who had been brought to the orphanage a nearly six years ago. Mrs. Crowder recalled the night perfectly, and to this day still could not understand what had possessed those strange men to just drop off the boy and vanish without a word. Though, as the child grew, a part of her felt a strange understanding as to their actions.

Hadrian Potter. A grand given name, and a simple surname. As he grew older, it became apparent that the Potter boy was not like the other children. While the others would run around the orphanage and play with the few toys they possessed, he would up in his room (room eleven), reading. Other children would laugh and smile, scream and throw tantrums, but the Potter boy was calm and composed, as quiet as a mouse, innocuous if not for his eerie gaze.

Even his looks were particular; he was a lithe, elegant child, moving with the eerie grace incongruous with children his age. His hair was a wave of pure black that sometimes seemed blue, and skin fair and light just like his hair was dark. Though, of all his aspects, it was his eyes that were the most striking. It was his eyes more than anything that made Mrs. Crowder wary of him. Eyes a vibrant, startling green that seemed to glow; eyes that bespoke secrets and thoughts his silence withheld.

For years, Mrs. Crowder never heard a word leave the Potter boy; often she wondered if the boy was mute, or just wrong in the head, but the chance to hear his voice would leave her even more frightened of him than she'd ever thought possible. Even now, she could recall that day with perfect clarity, and it still brought a shudder upon her body.

**.**

**.**

_From where she sat, Mrs. Crowder had a perfect view of all her charges. From Susie Charm who sat playing in the sand box, to Margret, Lizzie, and Amy who were skipping rope. Even little Billy and Sam were visible, though they were in the midst of trying to sneak off from the playground. As she sat there, hands in her lap and sun warming the back of her neck, Mrs. Crowder allowed her eyes to wander off toward the large oak tree not far from where she sat. Beneath it sat a boy, crossed legged and reading a large volume that beyond his years. _

_Such a strange boy he was, Mrs. Crowder mused, turning away her attention to call back Billy and Sam when movement caught her eye. She sighed, though made no move to intervene as John Bennett and his group of friends strutted over to where Hadrian Potter sat, reading. John was a skinny boy of fourteen, with a shock of orange hair and large front teeth, a far cry from a polite young man but not necessarily a delinquent. In Mrs. Crowder's opinion, anyway. _

"_Oi, what you got there, freak?" spat out John, snatching away the book. _

_Mrs. Crowder, heaving another great sigh, shook her head. That boy John had made it habit of his – a game really, to taunt and harass the Potter boy, determined to rile the boy. But, seeing as his jokes were harmless and had no effect on Potter boy, Mrs. Crowder let it go as nothing of great concern. _

"_Can he even read that?" another boy, Cameron, piped in. "He's lying, isn't he? No one his age can read that." _

"_Yeah, he is," added another boy. _

"_He's probably just pretending so looks smart or something," sneered John, flipping through the pages before throwing the book onto the ground. His foot pounded onto the cover, in caving the spin. "He just wants someone to notice him cuz he's a freak and nobody wanted him." _

_While all the boy's laughed and jeered, Potter remained silent, his eyes trained firmly on the book that was being damaged under the foot of the older boy. Mrs. Crowder clucked her tongue, rising to her feet to go and put an end to all this nonsense when she halted, mouth agape. _

"_You know nothing of me." _

_The words, spoken in a quiet voice, sent a thrill of terror down her spin. Never before had she heard an eight year old hiss out words so venomous, so full of force and hatred. For a wild moment she assumed she had misheard, or had even imagined it all together when he spoke once more. _

"_None of you know a thing about me," Potter snarled out softly. _

_And, before she could intervene, before John and his gang could calculate a comeback, John himself was on the floor, screaming in pain. He clutched his arm to his side, wailing and crying as though he was being burned alive. Mrs. Crowder raced over to his side, trying to calm him, urging one of the children to get help. As she clutched the still wailing teen to her side, she saw the retreating back of Potter, his mended book in hand. _

**.**

**.**

Since that day, Hadrian Potter had become untouchable. The other children were too frightened to come near the boy, and the matron shared their sentiments though she never voiced her own wary fears. They did not question the boy's actions, not even when he stayed out in the rain for hours and returned inside drenched and unbothered. Mrs. Crowder did what she could for her wards, providing for them the best she could, and when it came to Hadrian Potter that is what she did.

He did not want anyone to question him, and she did just that for Mrs. Crowder was everything if not dedicated to her charges and in giving them what they wanted.

And so, life at Crowder's orphanage continued. With watered down soup, scare toys, and moth eaten blankets, and silent prayers for the existence of Hadrian Potter to vanish, the children of Crowder and the matron moved on with their lives.

Mrs. Crowder, per usual took the orphans out to the park, and just as usual watched over her charges. All expect for one, of course. She did not bat an eye when Hadrian Potter grasped the hand of a strange man and walked off. She did not call for him for if there was one thing she knew of Hadrian Potter it was that he did not like to be questioned.

After all, Mrs. Crowder was determined to give her orphans what they wanted.


End file.
